Marianna. The name planned by my parents and built by my peers. To some, my name has a kick to it, like biting into a grape only to shiver at the sour surprise. However to most, my name resembles a soft baby breath pink. A calm classical melody played with no crescendos. Almost as if it’s a pretty rose delicate to the touch. Almost.

The name itself is a façade. It puts on a pretty, delicate act. However, every rose has its thorn. The meaning of my name is neither beauty nor elegance, the meaning is bitter. The poison hidden beneath the delicious walls of the apple. Unfortunately, I can’t debunk this in any way because everybody has a hidden bitterness to them. I’m just the lucky one that got called out on it.

My grandmother, Yiayia to me, is the one to blame for calling out my inner bitterness. I was originally just Anna. A lovely name paired with a lovely meaning. It means grace. Unfortunately, my grace was stolen when my Yiayia refused to let me be called Anna. Her reason? Anna was a gypsy name. She insisted that I was a Marianna.

My Yiayia is a strong, wonderful, wise old lady. She knew exactly what she was doing when she named me. She got everything about me right just from one look. My soft outer appearances and my hidden inner edges were all obvious to her. However, there was one thing that she forgot to account for. Humanities inability to remember uncommon names.

There is a reason people don’t like long names. It’s the same reason why I hit snooze on my alarm just to get that extra 5 minutes of rest. We like to spend time doing what we like. Remembering four syllable names is not something we like. This results in lousy attempts at shortening my name like Mari or Anna, with the occasional Marinara. But none suit me.

So what does suit me then? Well, It’s not Mari or Anna, and definitely not Marinara. It’s my delightfully bitter name, Marianna.